The black dog that could suffer
on a hot summer’s day
instead sprawls next to an AC vent
waiting for the cheese tax to be paid.
Out of a Saint’s surprise litter,
she did not languish in a shelter
nor has she haunted any moors,
but at night we do scare each other
should I shuffle into her,
a shadow on my bedroom floor.

Not a creature of myth or magic or lore,
she is nonetheless my guardian–
albeit under my desk during thunderstorms–
And trusted judge! my black dog, of all house guests,
allowing only those of good intention
to scratch the white star on her chest.